The chairman stepped forward until he was standing three feet away from the President. “The entire Arsenal ship is capable of being remotely targeted. Mr. President, based on your experiences on the land, you know how critical unity of command and avoiding blue-on-blue engagements is.
One screw up between the aircraft and we take out a friendly land force.
But with the Arsenal ship, all movements can be controlled directly from here, from this very room if you wish. You will truly be the first commander in chief able to act immediately in response to changing battlefield conditions, making sure the war is fought exactly as you wanted it. Even the most advanced communications suite in the world can’t give you that.” He pointed at Admiral Magruder, who now stared down at the floor in disgust.
“The admiral can’t promise you that, not with flights of Tomcats and Hornets filling up the sky and getting in each other’s way.”
The President looked over at Admiral Magruder. “Well?
What about it? My predecessor seemed to trust you. You and I don’t know each other that well yet. Let me hear what you think.”
“I think it’s a big mistake, maybe the biggest one you’ll make during this term,” Vice Admiral Magruder said bluntly. He stood and walked briskly to the front of the room. “Targeting decisions belong in the military arena, Mr. President. No disrespect intended, but you simply do not have the time to develop the in-depth targeting and weaponeering capabilities here that that battle group commander already has. Has, and practices regularly.” Vice Admiral Magruder shook his head. “You get into micromanagement from the White House or even from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and you put lives at risk. Conditions change too quickly, and the battlefront is too fluid to allow that. You must remember that.” The admiral’s voice took on an urgent quality.
“That’s exactly the point that you always miss. Admiral,” the chairman said angrily. “We can bring that technology to the President’s office.
He can make every decision, just as though he were on the scene. And, more importantly, he can make this conflict what it truly is a political statement. An extension of his foreign policy, a demonstration of his individual will. How do you think that will affect the Cubans, knowing that the man on the other end of the hot line has his finger poised exactly over the fire control circuits?”
“They’ll think he’s a fool,” Vice Admiral Magruder said quietly.
“Because even the Cubans remember Vietnam.” He turned back to the President. “As do you, sir. You were there. You know what happens when Washington makes individual targeting decisions on a daily basis.
How could you forget?”
The President nodded slowly, then frowned. “We spent an awful lot of money on the Arsenal concept, though. And what the chairman says is true war is an extension of political objectives. Although sometimes I think it’s the other way around politics is a continuation of war by other means.” He looked back and forth between the two men. “Install the equipment. General.” He raised one hand to forestall Magruder’s protest. “I’m not saying we’ll use it.
For now, the battle group commander remains on-scene commander.
However, I want detailed plans from him regarding his proposed use of the Arsenal ship. And make it clear to him that I view this as an excellent opportunity to use our advanced technology, and to demonstrate its usefulness in any battlefield scenario.” His voice took on a firmer note. “This will work. Admiral if your people give it half a chance.”
The chairman nodded sharply. He turned to Admiral Magruder. “I’ll expect to see the plans later this evening.”
Twenty minutes later. Admiral Magruder was on the telephone to his nephew. Over a highly secure circuit, he outlined the gist of the President’s request. “Make it work, Stoney,” he concluded. “You don’t have to like it, but make it work.”
SIX
With the Washington-mandated safety stand-down over, Jefferson immediately returned to full flex-deck operations.
The Cubans continued to clutter up the sky around the ship with sponges of Fulcrums, but popular opinion had it that Admiral Wayne was not likely to allow that state of affairs to continue. The admiral had made it clear that current operations had two main objectives: to locate and retrieve Major Hammersmith and to obtain up-to- date eyeball intelligence on Cuban air defense capabilities.
No one had to tell the VF-95 Viper squadron what the latter information was for. They were going in. It was just a question of how and when.
The demands on the flight schedule allowed even the staff pilots to grab some stick time.
“You have any idea what we’re doing up here?” Bird Dog asked. His index finger was beating out a staccato rhythm on the throttles.
“I know as much as you do.” Resignation tinged the normally taciturn RIO’s voice. “They say launch, I launch.
They say go north of Cuba and look tactical, I give you fly-to points: What else do we have to know?”
“What the hell we’re doing here would help,” Bird Dog snapped. He yanked the Tomcat into a sharp right- hand turn without warning, shoving Gator hard against the seat back.
“Hey! What the hell was that about?” Gator’s words were slightly muffled as he forced them out between clenched teeth. “Give me some warning next time, asshole.”
“Sorry, shipmate, just thought I saw something up ahead, that’s all.”
Bird Dog eased quickly out of the turn and turned gently to port, putting it back on its original heading. Why the hell had he done that? If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that Gator didn’t deserve it. He’d known the unexpected turn would subject the RIO to massive G-forces, and might even have caused him to black out.
There was no reason to take it out on Gator. It wasn’t his RIO’s fault that he was being treated like a less than completely essential part of the battle group. Hell, he ought to be grateful that he was flying, although his orders to proceed from Jefferson to north of Cuba and to orbit on a CAP station with two other F-14s seemed a waste of gas and time. Time he could have better spent sleeping, dreaming about the beautiful Callie. He sighed as images of his fiancee well, almost his fiance erose in his mind, as they were wont to do at the slightest provocation.
Who would’ve ever thought he’d be torn between dreaming about a woman and flying? A year ago, flying would have won hands down.
“We’re a diversion,” Gator said. “There are four Tomcats and four Hornets on Alert Five right now. Since when does the carrier roust that many aviators out of bed simply to support a grab-ass mission?”
“A diversion? Why? There’s nothing going on around here.”
Gator sighed. “Of course there’s not. It’s a diversion, stupid. A diversion happens somewhere besides the main action. Didn’t they teach you that at the War College?”
“The War College was a bit more sophisticated than that,” Bird Dog said stiffly.
The yearlong curriculum concentrated on operational art, with many theories contrasted to old-style campaign planning. Students at the Naval War College looked at the big picture: how best to use military force to achieve political objectives, what composition of large-scale forces were most appropriate to applying pressure to an opponent’s center of gravity. They didn’t get down into the grass, as the professors there were fond of saying. Individual platform capabilities, weapon ranges, and tactics were the province of more junior courses, such as Tactical Action Officer School or even Fighter Weapons Course Top Gun at Naval Station Miramar. The War College students were expected to be beyond that, to concentrate on the high-level planning they’d be expected to do as members of a deployed staff or ashore at the Pentagon. In Bird Dog’s case, he’d had a chance to apply his new skills even before he graduated.
